chiaroscuro
by vis-et-decus
Summary: Knights of the Old Republic. Revan and Bastila; your spirit sleeping somewhere cold.


I'm the leading man, and the lies I weave are oh-so intricate.  
This Ain't A Scene // Fall Out Boy

***

Being in love with your best friend is a horrible thing, as Revan knows, especially a) if you're not quite sure if you're truly in love, and b) you're not quite sure what love is. He doesn't understand either.

He's watched Bastila as they've grown up together and he knows all of the things that make those Hoth-cold eyes soften the tiniest bit, or start up the stutter in her words that never fails to appear when she's embarrassed. Stolen caresses that were but the lightest brush of fingertips in passing – and for Master Vrook's best pupil, fingers entwined is more than enough; she'd started to protest as his hand drifted to her cheek… that was before he began to trace the outline of her lower lip with a fingertip, the intrigued look on his face silencing that steel-sharp tongue. An anonymous donation of wildflowers that ran the entire color spectrum, laid by her bedside at night to greet her awakening: and it could only be done at night, for some bloomed only by moonlight and others had to be collected when the kath hounds slept, unaware of trespassers on their territory. Caresses to make her feel beautiful and flowers to make her feel wanted, and written letters – how terribly archaic – that say her eyes are the color of Manaan's oceans in the winter and always end with 'Goodnight, Ice Princess.'

For all his wooing she is more critical of him in the presence of others, never failing to point out what others dismiss as inherent flaws; he'd often be heard saying – well away from her presence – that if she could she'd find a flaw in the Force itself. But he shrugs it off, takes her sharp satire and stinging barbs with nothing more than a wry grin and offhand comment. He knows that in private her words won't carry quite the same confidence, and as he reaches up to let her hair loose she'll bow her head and let him touch her without protest.

He knows for this lost little girl, his attention makes her feel richer than an Exchange boss, with twice as many secrets to hide. But inside, there's a little shiver of guilt – he's not sure what he feels, if anything… or if he's even supposed to feel anything, for that matter.

As the days pass and his eyes lose their childhood, the years melting by like youngling drawings left out in the rain, leaving him standing in that twilight between boy and man – still, he does not understand it. He does not understand as he storms out of the Enclave after hearing the Masters roar down his suggestion for war and literally runs into her – she grasps his arms so tightly that ten fingerprint-shaped bruises remain a week later, and mutely stares up at his face. All he can do is give her a smile that is all teeth and no smile.

Bastila's a strong girl. She's cried three times in her life thus far: once when she was born, once when she left her father's embrace to become a Jedi, and lastly when Revan leaves her to feed the dogs of war. She is left with nothing of his but a collection of memories, his bare cot and empty footlocker; all he owns on his back and him lightyears away. Afterwards she'll try to forget him: bury his flowers in fields even the kath hounds wouldn't dare tread, bury his words beneath ancient history lessons, bury his touch beneath dogma, but try as she might she can't bury his smile. That infamous smile that's one of the first things that she recognizes when they meet on Taris: half-mischief, half-enigma, all arrogance – all Revan.

And Revan, all these years later – for all his command of the Force and his success in courting the Ice Princess of Dantooine – he still does not understand it. He doesn't understand that Bastila's a part of him that's always been there; he doesn't understand because it would be like loving an arm or a kidney. And he can't forget her either, because his memories of her aren't in his mind: with the help of their bond, he's drawn her into his blood until ice slicks his veins, until she becomes a part of him – until she is him.

Until his eyes shimmer at the corners with that winter's blue and her presence shivers silver inside of him, resting its head in the empty place where his heart used to be.


End file.
